


Prof. & Dr. Lecter

by Wallissa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (although they're unaware of it), Adopted Abigail Hobbs, Alternate Universe - Mr. & Mrs. Smith Fusion, Cannibalism, Dark Will Graham, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationships, as one would expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: When he first met Will Graham, Hannibal thought breaking him, changing him and owning him would be fun. However, he wasn’t prepared for the domestic life of a married man - raising a sweet, docile adopted daughter with a sweet, docile teacher husband has him bored out of his mind. When the most exciting part of the day becomes stirring sleeping pills into his husband's whiskey and going out to taste warm blood on his tongue, Hannibal has to admit to himself that the spark is well and truly gone from his marriage. Apparently there is no room for domesticity in the life of a psychiatrist by day, cannibalistic murderer by night.(If he were to look, though, he might find that he isn’t the only one in this marriage who’s suffering)Or: The Mr&Mrs Smith inspired AU I've been thinking about for over a year now and finally got around to writing.





	1. Give me back my broken nights - Friday

**Author's Note:**

> I talked about the idea for this fic a while back [on tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/post/181689647540/spiritinggently-mr-dr-lecter-or-the-mr) and it's existed as a draft ever since. For the last few months, I've wrestled with terrible writer's fatigue and didn't even think about this whole idea. However, at the beginning of this week I pulled out a notebook I used for uni notes in 2015 and started writing this fic and that's where we are now.  
> It's the most fun I've had in a while and I hope reading it will be an enjoyable experience as well.
> 
> The chapter title is taken from ["The Future"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rH1XTOBF0YQ) by Leonard Cohen.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to call in for an appointment.”

Chilton’s forced laugh drowns out the clatter of Hannibal’s keys as he slips them into the pocket of his camelhair trench coat.  
“I wish that was the reason for my visit. Really, Hannibal, I’m sorry to intrude at this hour. I can imagine how eager you are to get home. But I came as soon as I could.”

It’s half past seven. Will’s appointment ends at seven. Hannibal doesn’t have to guess what this is about.  
“Don’t think twice about it, Frederick. I hope nothing bad happened to justify this late intrusion.”

The wind picks up and blows a few pink chestnut blossoms their way. Hannibal watches them dance away and buttons up his coat. Taking his time before he looks back at Chilton, whose fake friendliness sticks to his hands like molten gelatine. 

“Well, I’d love to- Hannibal, you know I shouldn’t be taking about this with you, but I feel like you have a right to know.”

Chilton’s scarf exposes the dip of his throat, the pale skin contrasting with the brown wool like a fish’s belly on a wooden cutting board. Hannibal has no interest in using his first name again and risk drawing this conversation out for much longer. It’s obvious that Chilton wants to tell him, or he wouldn’t be here. The idea that he had to come here to tell Hannibal himself instead of trusting Will to bring up whatever he may have to say tickles in Hannibal’s nose like pepper. He waits, sniffs, imagines steel and red spilling on chestnut.

“Hannibal, I have reason to believe that Will is severely depressed and that his current environment is hurting him.”

For a second, Hannibal almost feels like frowning, but he blinks the sentiment away like a lash in his eye. Calm nothingness fills his mind again. A quick idea of steel.  
“That sounds concerning indeed. I’ll talk to him.”

Chilton pauses. If he were nervous, he’d swallow now. “Hannibal, I don’t mean to intrude-“

“Nonsense, you couldn’t. You’re his psychiatrist.”

“Yes, and I was thinking that maybe, it wouldn’t be wise of you to bring it up. Maybe the two of you should consider consulting a third party.”

It’s not necessary to wear his gloves while driving and Hannibal rarely does. The leather warms against his skin. “Oh, would you-?”

“Me?” Chilton’s eyes rest on the gloves for a moment. “I’m flattered, but as Will’s consultant I really shouldn’t.”

The metal of his car key glimmers in the rosy evening light, a sharp flash. “Of course. Would you join us for dinner?”

“Dinner? Oh, certainly.” It’s thrown Chilton off his rails, but he smiles as Hannibal leads their way down the front steps to his office. “I’d be a fool to say no to an invitation like that. When?”

“Indeed you would be.” Hannibal gives himself a moment to think of a suitable date, then repeats some of his thoughts for Chilton to hear.  
“Tuesday? Abigail’s holidays are starting on Monday and we were considering leaving for a trip on Wednesday.”

“Last trip as a family, huh?” Chilton’s smile is light-hearted. Like he’s not implying something.

Hannibal matches his expression. “I suppose so.” There’s a click, the car door opens. His hand on the doorframe, the door like a barrier between him and Chilton, who fumbles with his own car keys. 

“They grow up so fast.” 

The door finally opens and Hannibal watches him climb inside. “Indeed.”

“Well- Tuesday, then.”

A beat, then Hannibal. An afterthought. “I’ll send you an invitation with the address.”

“The-? Hannibal, I know where you live.” Chilton’s voice is muffled, he pushes his head out of the window. 

“Will’s old house is a bit farther out, by the woods. Abigail and him go there often, it seems like an appropriate place.”

Chilton nods and slips back into the car. 

The window hums as it’s rolled up and then silence presses in on Hannibal. Letting Chilton go ahead and pull out of the driveway first, Hannibal rummages through his glove department, coolly assessing his rage.  
It’s mostly focused on Chilton, which comes as no surprise. The utter shamelessness of the man is startling. Glee in his eyes, pity in his face and that friendly unprofessionalism in his mouth. Hannibal wants to feel those layers burst between his teeth like puff pastries. Jam oozing out and sticking to the roof of his mouth, red and hot.

The car starts with a soft purr and Hannibal pulls out of the driveway. As his gloves slide over the steering wheel with a satisfying hiss, he thinks of glinting steel sinking into white meat. Dark curls in his grip.

It’s been a while since he’s felt anything comparable for Will.

 

~*~

 

When he unlocks the front door, Hannibal is greeted by the muffled voice of the radio and the rhythmic, sharp-soft sounds of steel on wood. He’s late.

The kitchen is filled with garlic flavoured steam and the sound of sizzling olive oil. Abigail smiles at him over her shoulder when he approaches and brings down the knife again.  
In the bright light of the kitchen, her hair melts down her shoulders like gleaming liquorice. Her fingers are stained red and a pepper seed is stuck on her knuckle like an off-white mole.  
Hannibal kisses her cheek.

“I’m sorry, there were some complications.”

“Don’t be. We’ll just have the flambéed somethings tomorrow. Plus - It’s been a while since we’ve been allowed into the kitchen.” Her laugh doesn’t drown out the sharp sound of her knife on the walnut cutting board. Tomato juice sprays the wood.

Hannibal squeezes her shoulder with a smile. “Next time I’m cooking a larger meal, I’ll make sure to include you.”

There’s a loud sizzling noise as the diced peppers are added into the pan.  
Will hasn’t turned around to greet him, so Hannibal rounds the kitchen island. He stands behind him, his hand finding its way to Will’s hip naturally. Leather and jeans under his palm and the taste of skin and aftershave against his lip for barely a second. 

Will twists out of his embrace to face him.

“I hope you don’t mind the pasta.” His eyes skitter along Hannibal’s jawline, his face expressionless. It’s like biting into matzo – gentle, flavourless, but accompanied by the sharp, unexpected pain of the broken pieces digging into vulnerable gums, leaving a hot, salty taste.  
All of a sudden, Hannibal feels an overpowering sense of tiredness. 

“Of course not.” He squeezes Wil’s hip once, vaguely feeling the shape of his body underneath his layers.  
“Allow me to grate the cheese.”

 

~*~

 

The sweetness of pepper and red wine still lingers on Hannibal’s lips as he watches Will.  
During dinner, the sky became overcast, so the night has crept into the corners of the study much quicker than usual during this time of the year. It’s already smudged the contours of the room, the bookshelves losing shape like melting bars of chocolate. 

Will likes working by lamplight and his face is cut in gold, a Caravaggesque point of light and warmth in the shapeless dark. Hannibal would’ve stayed in the shadows by the doorway, letting his eyes lick the honeyed curve of Will’s cheekbone. But Will noticed him before the metal of the doorknob had warmed to his touch.

“Going to bed?” The words seem to echo, like they have to cross a great distance.

“Not yet. I was wondering whether you’d like a drink?” The “k” is a soft clicking sound in the darkness of the room, like a door closing gently. Intimate.

“Oh. Sure, yeah. Wouldn’t hurt.” Will turns back to his papers and the silence drains the darkness of the room, emptying it. 

Hannibal feels the vacuum of it as he walks over to the liquor cabinet. It’s not cold enough to justify lighting the fireplace, so he is engulfed by the muted darkness, just as his footsteps are swallowed up by the carpet. Just like the bookshelves, he melts into an obscure idea.

By the liquor cabinet, the sofa appears in vague shapes as he comes closer to it. It’s set into an alcove and invisible from the doorway, hidden by the shelves. To Hannibal, it resurfaces out of the dimness like a memory, the soft shimmer of the fabric in the dark catching his eye and mind.

_The taste of white wine and lychee-soaked meat sweet on his tongue, the chatter of a crowd seeping through the door like steam. Will’s hand fisted in his hair painfully, their teeth clashing. The soft curve of the sofa against his legs. Will’s eyes, glinting in the chocolate darkness. Wild._  
_Fingers like claws, digging into Hannibal’s face like they want to rip into his flesh, two slipped into his mouth, soap and skin and his glinting wedding ring against Hannibal’s teeth. His hand tearing at the leather of Hannibal’s belt, tearing the layers between them apart._

The door of the liquor cabinet closes with a soft click. Hannibal turns his head to look at the golden shimmer again, swallowed and hidden by the darkness.  
“I invited Frederick Chilton over for dinner.”

The paper rustles as Will turns a page.  
“Ah.”  
A sound so flat, it hardly carries through the distance between them. 

“I hope you don’t mind. He was being terribly rude today and I simply couldn’t help myself. Maybe green asparagus, Riesling. Strawberries and deer?”

The light catches in the cuts of the glass as Hannibal lifts if to look at Will through it, split into repeating segments.

“I don’t mind, you can do whatever you like. It sounds good.” 

Will, multiplied and split, runs four hands through his curls. Emptiness sucks on Hannibal’s insides like white rage and he turns back to the cabinet.

“Maybe it would be nice to have him over at your old house. The woods might go nicely with the meat and the green flavours of the asparagus.”

Powdered Benadryl covers the bottom of the glass like snow, then melts in the swirl of Cognac.

Will hums in reply and Hannibal picks up the glass to cross the distance between them. As he goes, the light shapes him back into a physical being.

At the table, he stops. The glass cool in his palm, his eyes on the nape of Will’s neck.

“I-“  
Will sets down his pen and huffs a breath, not quite a sigh. Glass in hand, Hannibal waits.

“I’ve been having some wild dreams lately. Finals, I guess. I’ll take the guest room tonight.”

Hannibal nods and sets down the glass next to the lamp where it won’t stain the carpet should it tumble over. He smiles.

“Of course. I’m sorry to hear about that. If you need anything, tell me. I’ll write you a prescription.”

Will reaches for the pen he’s dropped next to his stack of finished paperwork. Red and uncapped.  
“Thank you. For the drink, too.”  
Finally, he turns a little, gold catching in his eyelashes. His eyes flutter over the contours of Hannibal without stilling for long enough to take in the depth of him. He raises a hand.  
Instinctively, Hannibal leans in, something like lychee on the tip of his tongue. Gold against his teeth.  
But like his eyes, Will’s hand misses him, fingertips barely touching his hair. He pulls his hand back. A pink chestnut blossom rests on his palm like candy.

The leather of the desk chair feels glossy and alien when Hannibal squeezes it gently. Absentmindedly, like one would with a shoulder.  
“Of course. Sleep well, dear.”

With every step, the emptiness becomes more apparent. The door shuts with a gentle click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! 
> 
> If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving kudos or even a comment. It really means a lot :)  
> When I find myself unable to write, I like to reread comments and you have no idea how motivating that is. 
> 
> Another note: English isn't my mother tongue, so please - should you spot a mistake, please don't hesitate to tell me! Thank you!  
> Somewhat related to that: Riesling is a white grape from the Rhine area in Germany (guess what country I'm from <3). It's used for sparkling wine, dry and sweet! 
> 
> One last note I HAVE to make: alcohol and sleeping pills do NOT work together. The risk of overdosing on the pills is much higher even if the doses are much smaller, alcoholism can result from it, and the sleep resulting from that combination can be fitful. Sleep walking/talking/driving can be a result, for example. Also the page I consulted listed “death.” as a possible side effect. Don’t think Hannibal wouldn’t know this. 
> 
> Usually I go into lengthy detail in my notes about details of the chapters, but I feel bad for clogging up the end of the chapter like that. So if you'd like to know more about Caravaggio, or have questions regarding Chilton, Abigail or Hannibal&Will's marriage (or would like me to write out that whole sofa hookup scene) - don't hesitate to hit me up on [my writing tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com)! (it's rather new. I'm mainly an aesthetic blog so this is a big challenge.)  
> I'll try my very best to have chapter 2 up in two weeks at most and I'll def post on that over on tumblr too :)
> 
> this got very long after all! Thank you so much for reading (again) and I hope you have a nice day!


	2. My mirrored room - Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...well that was longer than 2 weeks. I'm really sorry, there was a somewhat surprising week of vacation with an added cold that just kinda fucked that up. 
> 
> With that out of the way: Thank you so much for all your lovely comments!! :) I kept rereading them throughout the last few weeks and I'm just so happy you're enjoying the beginning so much. I hope you'll have just as much fun with this chapter!
> 
> (the title is, once again, taken from Cohen's [The Future](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rH1XTOBF0YQ)!)

Once the car leaves the main road, the throbbing in Will’s head eases significantly. The rain makes the woods look full and heavy, vibrating with colour. Endless, cooling green fills Will's vision and drowns out the roaring inside his skull.

“What’s this?” Red liquorice bops between Abigail’s teeth as she’s speaking, rustling through the plastic bag with their shopping.

Will glances at her, but knows what she found without seeing the wet shine of the pill box.  
“Anti-Depressants,” he says before focussing back on the road.

“What for?” The plastic bag crumbles like a half-frozen cloud. Abigail leans over her backrest to drop it on the backseat.

“They’re mine. Chilton found it advisable.” Will’s voice gets sharp, not unusual when he’s discussing his therapist with Abigail. They have a collective dislike for his slick smile.

She hums, slipping back into her seat. Her palm, warm and dry, wraps around his hand on the gear lever. She squeezes once and doesn’t expect him to look at her.

“Don’t tell Dad.”

Sometimes, Will doesn’t know how many secrets he can ask her to keep before she’ll find out the others on her own. The yellow stripes on the road slip closer and under the car, hurried and rhythmic consumption.

It’s quiet for a few minutes while the trees drip some last raindrops on the windshield and their hands rest warm and awkward on the lever. Part of Will doesn’t want to know what she’s thinking, his head filled to the brim with his own thoughts already. There are other people still on the back of his mind, like faces reflected on train car windows.  
Now, with the sharp pain in his skull finally washed away with green, he doesn’t want to think for anyone else. Enjoy the quiet for as long as he can.

But in the end, Will glances at her out of the corner of his eye and reads the tension in her puffy lip. A wet shine.

“It’s not serious.” Will can’t tell her more, can’t tell her that depression was simultaneously the easiest option and the farthest from the truth.

“It’s just the stress. Two weeks and it’ll be done with. You know how it is this time of the year.” Nights spent over books and papers, eyes burning from electric light. A dull headache. It's not unbelievable.

A flash of white teeth, sinking into pink. “Will you talk about it with Dad at some point?”

Yellow flashing on dark pavement, devoured.

“I don’t think so. Not if it goes away like I think it will. No use in worrying him.”

The thought of Hannibal is loud in his mind, interrupting the quiet, wet-cool green. The robin’s egg of his shirt, the silvery brown of his suit, the gleaming cufflinks. His pale hands, delicate bones. The shape of his jaw, his mouth.

Loud, intrusive.

Will’s brows furrow. 

Hannibal might pride himself on his elegant and polite reserve, but he sinks into the corners of every room he’s standing in, demanding attention with his aristocratic smile and gentle manners. He’s a bird, and his soft voice is a beak, painfully carving into the bone of Will’s skull.

At some point, Will might’ve been nervous about Hannibal seeing through him. Fooling a professional who watches him eat dinner should be harder than fooling Chilton. But Hannibal is just as comfortable treating Will’s eyes as two-way mirrors as Chilton is.

No, it’s not that he’s afraid of Hannibal. But keeping up the act would require drugs and result in that calm, prodding gaze Will hates so much. On top of that, Hannibal would take it personal.  
Will is tired just thinking about those conversations. Hannibal never liked Chilton and hated him for being allowed to continue his work on Will where Hannibal had had to step back due to their involvement. Possessiveness and hurt pride. 

Will sighs and Abigail misinterprets. “I’m sure he’d know what to do. But I won’t tell him if you don’t feel ready.” She pauses, then changes her tone. Making her voice light. “Hey, are you hungry?”  
He appreciates the effort.

There are sandwiches with lettuce peeking out the sides like green ruffles. Abigail opens one to check the contents and the shine of black olives contrasts with the silky shimmer of dry cured ham, sliced so finely that it looks like folds of red stained glass. She folds it and hands it over to Will.

His stomach churns and although he takes a bite, it probably shows on his face. As if Hannibal, who so lovingly folded glass for him to eat, is also forcing the convolutions of Will’s brain to bend to his will.

Will can’t take his eyes off the road right now, but he doesn’t have to to know that Abigail is looking at him. After six years spent by his side, she took up his habit and they find themselves circling each other, their eyes reading the unwritten scripts of their conversations. They come in flashes, like photographs presented on a dark desk.

The sink with Will’s glass in it. Amber glittering on crystal.

“I poured it down the drain. It’s just the stress.”

Drinking is nothing he hides, mostly because it would upset Abigail more to find out he’d been keeping secrets. Compared to the red splatter of a secret she found out shortly before they met, drinking is hardly worth mentioning. So Will looks at the faint silver ribbon that first secret had so strangely wrapped around her throat, doesn’t hide his drinking and keeps the scarlet secrets sticking to his own hands to himself.

~*~

 

They arrive a little later than planned. When Will unlocks the front door, their shadows are already tall and thin in the grey light.

Since it’s well known that they come here regularly, the house isn’t considered abandoned yet and has been safe from curious teens so far. Thus, the quiet that greets them is uninterrupted.

Dust is dancing in the last traces of daylight and it smells faintly of wood and stale air. To Will, it feels like coming home after a long and stressful vacation.

His mind eases.

“Next time we really ought to clean the windows.” While Will is still standing in the living room, letting his thoughts uncurl from the claustrophobic corner of his brain they’ve been forced into, Abigail has already made her way over to her room, carrying her overnight bag. She’s calling out to him, partly muffled by the sound of rustling linen.

It used to be the guest room before she came, but even then, Hannibal had never stayed there. That first time, he’d carved a place for himself in Will’s space and settled there, arms wrapped around him and breath tickling his neck. Never to leave again.

Will thinks about the scent of cedar and jasmine and the delicate shadows of golden lashes on high cheekbones as he traces the frame of Eddie’s portrait on the mantelpiece. As it follows the swirls, his fingertip collects dust. His eyes flit over the familiar big grin, the chipped front tooth and the wrinkled, furry-soft forehead.  
There’s a chip on his frame. Will dips into it with his fingernail and thinks very pointedly of nothing.

Next to the set of frames, a stack of flyers is slowly getting bleached out by the sun. The edges of the papers have started to roll up and grease stains blot out the writing in places. They smell faintly of dust and old ink. Will picks the stack up, leaves through it and fishes his phone out of his pocket. When he joins Abigail in the kitchen, dinner is already on its way.

By now it’s dark out and the bright lights in the kitchen turn the windows into mirrors, enclosing Will and Abigail while locking out the rest of the world.

“Do you think Hannibal’s having the flambéed somethings?” She has her back turned to him and uses one hand to lift the lid of the basket they brought from the other house, while her other hand is rustling through her bag of liquorice. Red snakes slither over the counter until Abigail’s hand catches one and raises it to take a bite. Will can’t see her mouth, but he hears the snap of her teeth.

Will plugs in the fridge and picks up the plastic bag with their groceries. Butter, toast, Nutella, eggs, cherry juice. A neat row of secret rebellions. “Probably.” 

When he turns, Abigail has lined up four containers worth of food on the kitchen island. Stainless steel gleaming in the bright light. If it hadn’t been a spontaneous idea, there would’ve been more. Even in his absence, Hannibal fills them.

With a dull throb somewhere in the back of his head, Will picks up the first container. The shimmering slices of meat arranged on fragranced rice and pomegranate seeds remind him of wax displays in knife shops. Glossy and untouchable. Painted and glazed and lovingly inedible. He considers throwing the whole thing away. The rainbow of colours in the trash bin.

“Did you see this? The raspberries look like diamonds.”

Will turns back around and dutifully steps behind Abigail. The back of his hand brushing against the flannel-soft curve of her back as he tries not to spill rice on the floor. He looks over her shoulder, glancing into the container she’s holding as if it were some magic treasure chest.

In silk-smooth, snow crystal nests of candied rose petals Hannibal arranged raspberries like drops of blood. They shimmer in the glaring light of the kitchen, probably glazed in something. Will carelessly puts the lid back onto the container with the meat and puts it into the fridge.

Until the doorbell rings and the empty house is filled with the scent of pizza, Will and Abigail stand in the kitchen, shoulders pressed together, and eat Hannibal’s dessert. With honeyed fingers, they pick up raspberries, sucking sugar crystals off their fingertips. They sip cherry juice out of whiskey tumblers and sink their red-stained teeth into white rose petals.  
Will’s mind is empty except for the gunshots of the glaze breaking between his teeth.

~*~

Sleep doesn’t come easily when he’s on his own. When it does come, it’s fitful most days. A messy, loud darkness that presses into his skull.

 _The walls closing in on him, the bed sinking into the floor, down a well that gets smaller and smaller. Movement behind the walls and finally hands, pushing through cushion-concrete and reaching out, grabbing at him, pulling on him, scratching over his skin, holding his kicking legs, tearing the meat off his bones. Sinking rotting claws into his skull to break it apart and spill his brain. His fingers claw into the mass of hands, finding bones and teeth that feel cold and smooth and rain through his fingers. No purchase. Nothing to support him, nothing but the press of splintering bones that try to rip his skull apart._  
_The walls close in._

He sits up.

A figure next to the bed, half-melted into the darkness and his hand slipping over the sheets, finding his glasses before the gun tucked under his pillow.  
It’s Abigail, moonlight pale. Barefoot in the doorway.

Will’s breath rattles in his chest and his hands shake. His shirt, drenched in sweat, is cold against his skin. A fish, twitching on a cold cutting board.  
Thoughts come to his mind without order. Painful, shaky polaroids. Eyes wide, throat tight, he watches as Abigail shuffles closer.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Her hand isn’t clenched into her pyjama trousers, but her voice is just as quiet as it was when she was younger and the red on her neck still fresh. As she got older, her voice got softer still, since Hannibal’s body is warm, but his voice is cold and cutting. First the dogs, then Abigail, and at some point, Will left voluntarily. 

Now, her voice isn’t secret-soft, since they’re alone. Just the respectful whisper of a ghost in the dark.

Will tangles a hand in his wet curls to hide how bad it’s shaking. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I couldn’t sleep.” She stays where she is even as Will untangles his twitching legs from the blanket and smooths it out, making room for her to sit down.

Even when he’s not here, Hannibal’s rules still apply. 

Like Will is the two-way mirror that shows someone else reflected in himself.

His head hurts.

“I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

She’s still not sitting down, just looking at him with eyes that look doll-cold in the near-darkness. The room probably smells like fear and sweat. Will wouldn’t know, his head is so crammed full that it feels like his brain will push through his nostrils and drip down his lips and chin. He can’t smell. He can hardly see with how his mind is vibrating.  
“Pa.” It’s not something she does often, picking the name Hannibal picked for her to use for Will. “How do you know you’re in love?”

It’s not what Will expected. He opens his mouth. Clears his throat. Reaches for the glass on the bedside table.

His mind stutters.

Slows.

The water is cool down his throat, he’s starting to feel cold in his wet shirt. Abigail is still standing next to the bed, white and grey and blue black. 

“I suppose you know you’re in love when you always want to be around that person. When you’re happy to see them and get nervous around them. Butterflies.”

He pauses and looks at his glass. It’s glittering in the dark, looking alien. Empty.

“When you feel safe with them, I think,” he continues. “When their presence is soothing. Like-“ 

Like fingertips tracing his knuckles, soft breath caught in the hollow of his collar bone. Like arms wrapped around his waist. Like bones and skin and cotton fitting together.

“Like someone who makes you feel calm,” he finally finishes, distracted by the drops caught in the corners of the glass, mirrored and multiplied.

“Yes. That must be nice.” Abigail is still a soft voice, her teeth glittering in the darkness as she speaks. 

And it was.

“Yes.” He thinks of teeth on the velvet-soft lobe of his ear, fingers slipped into the dips of his ribs. 

“I think it’s important to look at what you have, right? Who makes you feel this way?”

Will feels something pulse in his skull, a sharp pain. A bird’s beak, carving. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his breath harsh and unstable against the palm of his hand.  
“Yes, of course. But-“ he swallows, eyes closed still, trying to will away the pain behind his eyes. “But remember that there are other things that can make you feel that way. Right, Abigail, love comes in many forms. You know that.”

The scraping sound of a bottle being unscrewed. Rhythmic gurgling, harsh fizzing. The glass, cool and wet, against his knuckles.  
“I know, Will.”

His hand opens for the glass and his eyes open to look at her.  
The bed didn’t feel this big before he met Hannibal.

“I miss the dogs.”

“I know.” She leans in and just for a moment wraps her arms around him. Dark hair spills over her shoulder, impairing his vision. 

Will’s mind it flooded with cool, clear water.

When she pulls back, she takes the warmth with her, but he doesn’t try to hold her back. Like a thought, she slips away and leaves him to wait for the walls to come closing in again.

Darkness spills over him and his hands clench in his sheets. There’s the bone-carving pain in his skull and with his eyes fixed on the folds of fabric pooled over his lap, he can feel something bubbling and foaming in him. 

Bare feet pat away on claw-scratched wooden floors and he stays back, thinking of Hannibal. Of glass shattering and red oozing out between his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! :)
> 
> There are a few things I want to remark on! 
> 
> Firstly: The raspberries Hannibal prepared for them are glazed/candied and inspired by the Tanghulu dessert that's so well-loved in the ASMR community. I don't really watch ASMR, but I always found the glossy fruits striking and they make such glass-breaking sounds while eating. Very aesthetically pleasing! However, the most common fruits for this (at least in ASMR videos) are strawberries. I chose raspberries instead since they're darker in colour and the inside is dark and juicy, which toes the line to the gory and grotesque more explicitly. If you're interested - I really like [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4I9dh3YRWdQ), since the glass-glossy fruits are presented so nicely and the shattering sounds are extra loud. Sadly, it doesn't have raspberries, but while I found videos that did have them, they weren't as nice as this one. I did weird research for this and I apologise for linking crunchy eating sound videos under this fic, it's very strange. But I felt like I had to explain where that came from.
> 
>  
> 
> Secondly: The whole ribbon thing and Abigail's scar. It's a reference to Goethe's Faust, because I simply couldn't help myself. The quote has been stuck in my mind since I read it in school and now it resurfaced.  
> The context is that Faust has a vision of his lover who has just committed a crime and is imprisoned. He's to blame for her situation and exclaims upon seeing her: "What delight! What pain! / I can't turn from her, again. / Strange, around her lovely throat, / A single red cord adorns her, / Like a knife-cut, and no wider!"  
> The context is of very little interest here. After all, Will is Abigail's father figure, not her lover. But the visual imagery of a red cord (the original word suggests a ribbon/choker type thing) symbolising a cut throat is very striking to me. So I stole that, complete with the "strange". Since it's an older scar - 5 or 6 years - it would be silver rather than red or scarlet. 
> 
> Thirdly: I randomly got inspired by the imagery of "In a Station of the Metro" by Ezra Pound, which I also read years ago in school and which goes "The apparition of these faces in the crowd: / Petals on a wet, black bough." - I remember that the black bough was the dark window on which the faces of strangers were reflected. That image crept into the fic as well.
> 
> Lastly: When I was very little and didn't understand a lick of english, I listened to ["Kaltes Klares Wasser" (cold clear water)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUDg0l_LJQc) by Chicks on Speed and I still remember how the song seemed to rush through my little head like cold sparkling water. It was quite the experience and even though I now feel energised and slightly nervous instead of cooled and refreshed when listening to that American lady repeating those words (and I now understand the whole pussy/armpit thing), it still stayed with me and translated into the last part of this chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Well, this got long. 
> 
> As always - I have a [tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com)!  
> Recently I started to use it to collect quotes, songs etc. that inspire me in my fics, so if you'd like to see that, keep updated about my writing or have questions regarding the fic, feel free to check it out :) 
> 
> Kudos and comments are so, so appreciated! I love hearing your thoughts and as I said, I keep rereading them whenever I feel unmotivated, so thank you so much!! :)
> 
> I hope you have a wonderful day!!!  
> (I promise the next chapter WILL come in two weeks..))


	3. My secret life - Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took quite a while because I decided to rethink the structure of the whole story... But here we are now! Back to Hannibal! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading the last chapter and leaving such lovely comments and I hope you'll enjoy this one as well! :) We're finally getting a tiny bit more gory

It’s been roughly an hour now and Hannibal’s thoughts are drifting in and out of the large, representative living room like smoke. In the milky afternoon light, the floor length windows look like they’re made of sugar and outside, the wind is blowing candylike chestnut blossoms through the garden. Plastic crinkles as he crosses his legs.  
With Will and Abigail gone, he doesn’t have to worry about coming home in time, but he’d still prefer to have an hour or two to store the meat and make dinner for himself. 

Salted redness, thick and slow like syrup, is dripping on the marble floor, falling drops glittering like pomegranate seeds. There’s no warmth left in her at this point and most of the blood has been drained out or thickened. Hannibal has no reason to linger, but he does nonetheless, lost in thought.

Her hair is an artful mess of chocolate curls – that’s why he picked her in the first place. A few strands had slipped free from her shining up-do when she’d struggled, but Hannibal had pinned them back into place the second her hands had slowed, stilled, relaxed.

By now, her eyes have a milky shine to them, like lychees. Hannibal picks up the roses and Will’s fishing knife as he gets up and makes his way over to her chair. The warm, wooden handle with the long, pointed blade contrasting with the wet-cold stems, the soft rustling of the petals and leaves brushing and tangling together.

Red velvet wraps its raspberry-softness around her thighs and arms, complementary to the way she’d bruised and cut herself, trying to get free. A soft, bruised peach.

Hannibal stops in front of her, careful not to step into the strawberry lakes pooling around the chair. Dark wood, glossy. With her pale thighs and the red ribbon, the arrangement is reminiscent of Black Forest gateau.  
“Aren’t you delightful?” He says, not unkindly, the blade glinting like ice in moonlight. “You look like a piece of cake.”

The pointed tip of the knife sinks easily into lychee-white and lukewarm blood spills over her left cheek. Red and glimmering like jam, it mingles with her powder and re-traces the mascara-stained tear tracks left earlier.  
The right eyeball splits as easily and Hannibal presses the blade in until he can feel the tip tickle bone. When he pulls back, another gush of red bubbles out of her head and his knife drips blood on her skirt.

Since it’s Sunday, picking the right colour for his roses had been difficult. She won’t be found until Wednesday, when the neighbour will come to pick up the fat poodle Hannibal lured into the garden. Until then, the rotten-sweet scent will mingle with the roses and – more importantly – the blood stiffening her blouse and running down her chin will be flaky and brown.

Hannibal sets the fishing knife aside carefully to be cleaned later. As he pushes the first rose into the glimmering eye socket, he congratulates himself for his choice - the velvety, dark red petals will harmonise with the flaking copper and take some of its sharpness. 

One by one he sticks rose petals to the jam-stained cheeks, hiding the fresh tear tracks he made.  
The last few of the roses, Hannibal tucks into the red velvet tying her arms together behind the back of the chair. She dislocated her shoulder while Hannibal had been busy with her and the blade sticks out a little. Gently and with practised ease, he pushes it back into place.

His thumb follows the curve of her bone through cooling cotton and he thinks of Will’s head on his shoulder, curls tickling his chin and his thumb fitting against Will’s back. Finding the dip of his spine under worn flannel.

Hannibal pulls his hand away, not wanting to carve memories into her body. Will would surely see it, see Hannibal’s touch on her and read his thoughts.

Not that Hannibal has ever been particularly careful about hiding them from him. Since the very first time, Will has traced the lines Hannibal carves for him with his seawater eyes and has seen him.

That first time, Hannibal had made a mess for him, had broken bones and teeth and scattered them on the floor like peas for Will to sort through. But Will, nose red and cheeks flushed from the cold, looking fresh and sweet like a glazed apple and oh, so very young, had only sniffed once and said: _“This isn’t the guy. This one has something to prove.”_

 _“A copycat?”_ Jack’s hair had still been black back then, his voice warming like hot milk with honey in the biting cold wind.

Will hadn’t appreciated any of it, which Hannibal had found both amusing and infuriating at first. He’d just sniffed again, frowning. An impatient, brilliant brat, an arrogant young Orpheus, not yet touched by loss. _”Nothing like that. He’s showing off. This is his idea of a joke.”_

He’d pushed his hands into his pockets, no gloves, red and raw. _“He’s mocking us. Me, specifically.”_ With that, Will had turned his back on the young man with the smashed face and open chest, skin ripped and ribcage sticking up like bony, rotting fingers. Turned his back on that and looked at Hannibal with all of his apple-sweetness and cinnamon-sharp audacity. _”Do you still have some of that coffee you were drinking earlier, Doctor?”_

Hannibal still remembers how the snow crystals had glittered in his hair like sugar. How his own heart had felt like it’d been drowned in champagne. Cool and fizzing, followed by a hot weightlessness that had made his chest feel light and golden.

Drunk on the feeling of being understood, intoxicated by the knowledge that loneliness wasn’t a necessity, Hannibal had followed Will to his car to pour him a cup of coffee from his thermos. Will had refused the cashmere Hannibal had offered to wrap around his throat, but he’d put his lips against Hannibal’s cup. Hannibal had watched him with a sizzling heart.

Will had been his champagne for years. He’d been the rush and the heat, the laughter and the arrogance, the daredevilry and the gold in his veins.

Hannibal looks at his ring, a soft gold shimmer under surgeon’s blue and speckles of rusty red. His glove rustles as he turns his hand a little to watch the ring catch the light.

It had been strange, letting himself be vulnerable enough to be drunk on Will like this, considering he’d never been particularly fond of not being in control of himself. But with Will, he’d never felt that humiliating fatigue of drunken limbs. Will hadn’t numbed him; he’d brought him to life. He’d been a Champagne-sparkle in his throat and warm, infatuating esprit.

His history with Will is, so to say, directed and framed by a sense of drunkenness. The tip of Hannibal’s thumb touches skin warm gold, two layers of thin plastic separating one from the other.

Before Will, he hadn’t been this nervous about people in a long while.  
When he thinks about that night, white wine sticks to his tongue again. They’d had black bass, white and buttery, prepared by Will who still sinks his knife into flesh with a practised ease that makes Hannibal’s eyelids flutter.  
Will isn’t a particularly artistic cook, but he’s a good one. The way his fish and the black rice and asparagus Hannibal had prepared had complimented each other still makes Hannibal smile, tracing the handle of Will’s knife with his eyes, engraving sticky with blood. 

He’d been nervous. Giddy with excitement, intoxicated by the wild curls and white wine. The thought of keeping Will.

In the end, his nerves and the wine had soaked through him and his mind had been warm and filled with useless affection. They’d been in the kitchen, wooden countertops and an enamel sink, white colour chipped in places. Finishing the wine and the strawberries they’d had for dinner and doing very few dishes. 

Will’s hip warm under Hannibal’s palm and his scent in his nose – wild, like laurel leaves tangled in his curls, sun caressing his skin, tree bark and grass and the warm scent of his body that’d always shocked Hannibal with how greedy it made him.

 _“You’re so sweet, your blood must taste like cherry juice.”_  
His accent must’ve been wine-thick, but Will had turned to look at him and Hannibal’d known he’d understood. In the bright lights, his eyes had been a strange, dream-like shade of blue, his undivided attention had rushed through Hannibal’s veins.  
Will had looked at him and it had felt like he’d looked through him, and seen him.

Strawberry juice had been glinting on his knuckles and he’d licked it off with a careless swipe of his tongue, leaning against Hannibal. His body warm and familiar in Hannibal’s arms.  
_”What do you say we get married?”_

With all the languages swirling in his head, Hannibal hadn’t had words enough to say what he’d felt. Breathless, drunk, euphoric, he’d bitten his answer into Will’s strawberry-sweet mouth, tangling their fingers around the velvet box he hadn’t been able to pull out earlier.  
His hand had trembled when he’d gently wrapped it around Will’s throat to tilt his chin. Will’s pulse had fluttered against his palm and his shoulders had shook with the sweetest, most wonderful laugh Hannibal had ever tasted.

Nowadays, Will smells like the fragrance Hannibal got him a few years back (cedar, leather, smoke) and tastes like whiskey and exhaustion.  
Under his glove, the gold is muted. Hannibal has contemplated sinking the ring down Will’s throat at the end, but that seems unnecessary. He’ll keep it, one day it might come in handy.

The woman isn’t wearing a wedding band, either, but her intestines are wrapped around her throat like a dripping, gleaming necklace. Her heart, lungs and kidneys are in the cooler by the door, the rest he cut up for the dog. The void she displays in her open chest doesn’t intrigue Hannibal and he turns away from her, finally ready to leave.

It’s the first message Will won’t read. By the time they find her, Will will already be on that same glittering-cold table he read Hannibal’s notes on.  
Maybe, Hannibal thinks as he folds the suit into a little parcel of pomegranate-stained gelatine, they’ll place her on the table right next to Will. But that’s unlikely.

That’ll be Abigail’s spot.

Hannibal hasn’t thought about her much, but he’ll gently fold her into the freezer, or maybe into a bathtub filled with ice. For a moment, Hannibal stands very still, his back turned to the woman but his nose filled with the sickly-sweet, salty-warm scent of blood and death. He’s cold and rolls his shoulders back, shakes his thoughts off like snow stuck in his hair. That’ll be a good place for Abigail.

He’ll put her heart in the jewellery box he gave her when she turned sixteen, rest it on velvet. It would match the ebony hair and her snow-white skin.

Will’s heart, he’ll eat. 

His thoughts stutter. The keys he pulled out of his pocket almost slip from his grip to clatter on cold marble. Wearing gloves for a few hours made his palms slick. He tightens his grip. There’s a mirror next to the door leading to the hallway and he checks his appearance without meeting his own eyes.

He’ll eat Will’s heart. Pair it with white wine and strawberries.  
Then he’ll take the amount of blood necessary from his supply – maybe three or four litres or something randomly close to that number – and pour it over the bed as well, splatter Will and thus paint himself into the picture.

Hannibal wipes Will’s knife dry and packs it into the bag that already holds the gelatine parcel and his left glove. His eye catches the glimmer of the blade again as he pulls the zipper closed.

It’ll have to be the bed. Something soft, since he can’t place him on flowers in risk of making the whole thing look suspiciously personal.  
Will’s throat bared, milk white, with his chocolate rasps hair, his lashes resting on his cheeks and his cinnamon-sharp tongue hidden and silent. The gash in his stomach. Something Will would understand. But no one working for Jack will look at him on these stained sheets and see what Hannibal wrote into his skin.  
He’ll will have to be close to do it, and quick. First to the side, then up, spilling hot and wet over both of their hands. No joy in dragging it out.

With his left hand, Hannibal picks up the cooler containing tomorrow’s dinner, the bag slung over his shoulder, and makes his way to the door. Tonight, he’ll have a light dinner. He feels a little tired, a little queasy. The scent, probably.

Gloved hand already on the doorknob, he turns again to look at his work one last time.  
Bound to the chair and cut open while she was alive, left with a gaping emptiness and blind. A beautiful arrangement Will won’t stand in front of with his Pythia eyes.  
For barely a second, Hannibal can imagine him there with Jack, whose hair is white with powdered sugar at the temples and who still has a milk and honey voice. Warm and with regret whenever he’s looking at Will, who doesn’t want to notice.

Hannibal sees the empty torso and can almost hear Will, asking for his coffee, maybe a scarf. But that’s an image like incense-heavy smoke in a temple, sweet and headache-inducing.

Hannibal turns his back to it and the light switch clicks under his gloved fingers like a shoulder blade slipping back into place. The door closes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting off with another round of Thank Yous!! Thank you for reading!! Thank you so much for leaving kudos and comments! They are very much appreciated and are terribly motivating :)  
> I'm not terribly experienced when it comes to gore and all that jazz, so any kind of critique concerning that would be greatly appreciated!! 
> 
> On to the added info! 
> 
> Firstly: As I said in the beginning, I restructured the fic a little. Originally, I planned on having the first/second and third/fourth mirror each other, then have that climax at the end. Now, inspired by the structure of old plays, I decided to have a turning point in the third chapter, which is the one you just read. The first/second obviously still mirror each other and I think the fourth/fifth will have similar structures as well. This third chapter I called "Janus chapter" while working on it, since, like the demigod, it takes a look at the past as well as the future. Maybe you also noticed the little pyramid style repetition of elements (basically 1-2-3-2-1, if that makes it any clearer). I don't know, I escalated a little, structure wise, which is also why it took so long to write this.
> 
> Secondly: I don't know why Germany is such a constant theme in this fic, it usually isn't that prominent in my writing. But somehow it keeps sneaking in. This time it was through fairy tale references: Hänsel and Gretel at the beginning, later Snow White. (And the Black Forest Gateau. Not fairy tale related but definitely german.)  
> And to add to the Snow White thing: That was a bit stylised, I fear, but I couldn't help myself. In the Hannibal Rising book (I never watched the film, shame on me), Hannibal has to witness his little sister being cooked in an old bathtub and eaten (and he eats from her as well). I imagine that Abigail, while being a daughter figure to Will, is more of a representation of Mischa to Hannibal. So the idea of putting her into an ice-filled bathtub would, I imagine, be fitting for him and bring back some unpleasant memories at the same time. I could imagine it being some sort of therapeutic imagery to him, a way to deal with his childhood trauma.  
> And how does that tie into the snow white aesthetic? Before they ate Misha, the men who'd captured them killed a baby deer and cooked it in the same bathtub. The hunter in Snow White, being unable to kill her and cut out her heart, presents the Evil Queen a deer's heart instead, which the Queen then eats. Snow - Deer - Heart - Consumption and the scapegoat role of Abigail and the Deer were interesting motifs.
> 
> Three short notes: I don't know two things about cooking fish. So idk, Black Brass it is I guess. I looked up a recipe but yeah. And I'm not sure how clear that was but Will def STOLE Hannibal's coffee. Hannibal, at that point, was happy to just sip his home brewed fancy coffee and certainly wasn't planning on sharing it. Will was just freezing and rude enough to ask for some and Hannibal is pretty weak. And the whole cake/delightful thing is blatantly stolen from the 2006 Marie Antoinette film, but by me, not Hannibal.
> 
> Lastly: Pythia is the Oracle of Delphi. I originally thought she was blind, which would've been nice for obvious reasons (Hannibal being frustrated with Will for seeing him but also NOT seeing him), but turns out that's not her. There's a blind seer who lived as a woman for seven years called Tiresias, but his story wasn't really fitting in my opinion. Pythia isn't blind, but the image of that woman sitting in the smoke-filled temple (Delphi actually comes from "rotting" because of the beast Apollo killed, the [wiki](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pythia) is really interesting and I mean. how fitting.), inspired by the Gods and chanting her wisdom (some say she was pained by her visions etc) was just really appealing for Will. Orpheus was the musician who could bewitch animals and even trees with his song and later wandered into the underworld to bring back his wife from the dead, which failed. These references are why Hannibal thinks of laurel when remembering Will's scent instead of bay leaf - same thing, different context.
> 
> I don't think I ever wrote such detailed and long notes. Thank you again so much for reading and telling me your thoughts <3
> 
> As always - I'm on tumblr [@typinggently](https://typinggently.tumblr.com), where I ramble about my ideas and reblog stuff that inspires me in my fics!! :)


	4. It's lonely here - Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now this was a hot mess to write. Things are moving along, Will isn't feeling too great.
> 
> You know where the title is from, lads, and we're coming close to the last line of that verse!
> 
> I also round the corner, in chapter 4/5, with a quick note on ages etc: Will and Hannibal started dating when Will was in his early-mid 20s, Hannibal in his early-mid 30s - Will was already working with Jack at the time. Abigail's family incident happened when she was 6, she's around 16 now, and came to Will(&Hannibal) pretty much right after, at maybe 7. They married about 6 or so years ago and are currently roughly ten-fifteen years into their relationship. Just a late and vague explanation.

Will wakes up with a headache that threatens to split his skull and a slight pain in his left wrist, alarm cutting through his dream. It’s early enough that the light that filters through the curtains is still fog-white and the birds sound like they’re aware that their song is interrupting the quiet.

His eyes hurt with bone-deep exhaustion, but he doesn’t feel satisfied. His head isn’t quiet.  
With a sigh, Will straightens and drops his phone into the warm swirls of cotton that pool around his waist like creamy waves. When he lived here he’d always gotten up this early, a sacrifice for the secluded hiding place he’d chosen. Today, his insides ache. It’s probably the age.  
Or, Will thinks as he stumbles to the bathroom through a bedroom still cut up into nightly shadows and early morning light, it’s the fact that back then, his sleep’d been lighter.  
He used to sleep way less and way worse. Yearning, like he’d gone to bed hungry.

And at some point, Will thinks offhandedly as the lights in the bathroom flicker alive and cut his eye, after years of Hannibal feeding him, that hunger came back. Maybe he got sick at some point, maybe he can’t stomach what Hannibal wants him to swallow.  
Now it’s back. The unsettling, painful ache that used to keep him awake, pacing like a hurt creature, has seeped back into his life.

Now – his shirt sticks to his back as he pulls it over his head – now he sometimes does sleep, when he doesn’t think of Abigail or his father when he glances at his distorted mirror image in the whiskey bottle. But it hardly helps.

It mutes some of the hunger, but doesn’t drown it.

Water hisses out of the shower head and hits him like a punch to the head. It’s so cold that his bones feel like they’ll shatter, his skin turning to rubber, but he knows it might be worse once it warms and his body remembers its aches from last night. 

Breathing evenly and deeply, he waits until the steam starts to curl up around his feet like fog. He isn’t concussed, he thinks as he watches water run down the white tiles like glittering snakes. The wrist is a little sensitive and his biceps smart like he’s spent a few hours at the gym. Considering it could’ve ruined his plan to do this at all, he’s in good shape. No bruised knuckles, no cuts or sore shoulders. 

Shampoo, half-liquid glass, slicks up his palms and he closes his eyes when he feels his curls foam up under his hands. Cooling eucalyptus seeps into his nostrils and he tries to pretend to feel calm.

His head pounds, the hunger tears at his insides. He swallows his frustration. Going out last night hasn’t helped.  
Thinking about it usually only brings back memories he doesn’t need – bone and teeth flashing white in the moonlight, blood spilling on dew-wet leaves like ink – but even without going into detail he can tell that he’s not satisfied. He aches.

 

~*~

 

They make breakfast together, standing side by side in the kitchen. It should be mundane, but when Hannibal is around, they hardly get to step foot into the kitchen on their own.  
The day after tomorrow, Will thinks as the gas flame lights up, blue-hot, there won’t be any rules left to hold them back. Hannibal’s gleaming kitchen will be empty and sink into darkness like a coin dropped into the sea.

The radio on top of the refrigerator buzzes with the early morning news and butter sizzles in Will’s pan. Abigail hands him the bowl in which she stirred the eggs and they both watch as frothy yellow pours into the black pan. It bubbles like molten plastic. Will breathes in the scent of fried eggs and it feels like a wet fabric is pulled over his face, stifling, sickening. He swallows thickly and leaves it to Abigail to stir the eggs, opting instead to set the table.

His favourite mug, the one with the dog breeds printed on it and the little chip in the lip. Two plates - one simple, not quite Ikea but close, the other part of an old set, a survivor of his childhood decked in tiny blue flowers. A glass of juice for Abigail.

Empty, the table is alright to look at, still a little out of focus with the pale, unreal morning light. Hannibal and him used to sit here together, these first few times. 

Cold seeps in through the glass of the window next to the table and the world outside seems sketched with pastels. The air looks fresh and for a second, Will imagines the biting rush of it in his curls, the clatter of the open front door, rattling in the breeze, and excited yapping. Paws scrunching over ice-glazed grass, snouts barking out puffs of air. Sniffing, exploring, running free. 

Abigail enters with the tray of food and the scent and colour of it choke him, bringing him back to the present.  
“I took some of the leftover liver. It’s cold but I thought it’d go well with the scrambled eggs. Want some?” She puts down a plate and the sight of diced cold meat on lettuce makes Will’s stomach churn. He tries a smile, shakes his head and sips on his coffee. It’s not as strong as the espresso Hannibal’s gleaming machine of steam and terror produces and he waits patiently until the bitterness heats him up a little. 

To avoid looking at the food – rusty red, blood soaked cubes, an abstract yellow mass that looks like chewed-up, rotten mushroom, a block of melting fat – he turns back to the window. Losing himself in the freedom of the slowly waking world outside. 

Abigail’s knife cuts through something with the gentle click of steel on porcelain. “I was thinking about the little mermaid. You know, the love thing.” Steel on teeth, silence as she chews.

Will watches the trees. He’ll have to wear a scarf. It’s a remarkably cold morning for this time of the year.  
“Hm? Yes, I suppose. Leaving your world behind for someone, fighting evil together, trusting someone to accept you. That’s love, I guess.” The branches almost look like the tangled arms of octopi, spilling ink between them. 

“No, I don’t mean the Disney version.” Abigail’s hand, pale and bony, looks white in the last traces of grey dawn. Like a sunken body. 

Will’s gaze catches on the cherry juice in her glass, then loses itself again somewhere in the black ocean of her hair. 

“You know, Hans Christian Andersen. Hannibal gave me a book years ago, with illustrations. It’s in French, though. I think he’s had it for a while. But what I wanted to say – she’ll die if he doesn’t marry her, that’s the thing. And when he doesn’t – marry her, that is – she has the chance to kill him and regain her freedom.”

Will hums.

He thinks of dogs and Abigail and early mornings, of fishing and weak American coffee and the scent of dew-wet wool sweaters, of tangled trees and pizza deliveries and a chipped mug with dog breeds printed on it.

Of Hannibal’s pulse, frantic, against his palm, and broken bones. Spilled ink gleaming in the dark.

“How does it end?”

The knife handle is smooth in his hand and warms against his skin.

Abigail wipes a drop of cherry juice from her lips. “She can’t kill him, in the end. So she turns into sea foam.”

Will looks at the cubes of liver. He feels nauseous. “We should get going.” The coffee burns his throat as he empties his mug.

 

~*~

 

It doesn’t get better. Over the last few hours, it got progressively worse instead.

Will feels frantic. He can’t concentrate on his students. They’re distant figures somewhere in the dark and he rushes through the lecture without paying them much attention, driving by the wild bubbling in his brain. Their eyes, their bodies press into his consciousness. He feels them in some distant part of his brain, hears their whispers, their shuffling, their sniffs and coughs. He can _smell_ them. It’s drowning him and he fights desperately against the way his lungs constrict. He has to take off his glasses to lessen their impact on his vision. 

The light of the desk lamp by his laptop and notes is blinding, cutting his eyes and making him sweat. He’s cold, hot. The laser pointer slips from his sweat-slick grip and clatters on the table. He continues without picking it up, working through the lesson one second, one word at a time. Fighting against the aimless energy clawing at his insides,

He’s pacing, talking to the beat of the clock ticking on the wall, a dim moon over a sea of vague, oppressing shadows. Then it’s breaking through him, a wild, boiling mess of energy. He can’t think, his body too loud in his ears. The aimless, painful energy has him digging his fingernails into his palm and the memory of flesh ripping vibrates through him. 

He ends the lesson early, feeling like his bones will shatter with how much he feels inside. And – that’s probably the worst part – no one notices.  
They pass him on their way out, they look at him and their gazes slip off of him like water. None of them notice the panic that’s eating him up inside. It’s tiring. He’s disgusted by it.  
His notes crumble under his hand as he forces them into his bag and something in his mind roars with the possibility of tearing the papers, crumbling them, ripping them apart, hauling his bag into a corner. Giving the roaring in his mind some relief.

He’s heaving with the force of that promise of relief, but waits it out. It won’t help. It’l strain him, he’ll probably hurt himself with the uncontrollable, chaotic force that’s pulsing through him, and it won’t help.

So he picks up his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and makes his way out into the corridor.  
Instantly, it presses into his mind from all sides. Sound, smell, thoughts. There’s nothing for him to do except walk, following the frantic beat of his own heart. 

Emotions, voices, smells, bodies, everything pressing in, tearing at his brain. His hands shake, his vision is blurry, the doorknob slips from his grip a few times before he finally slips into his office.

The door closes, he’s alone, but it doesn’t help. He paces, runs around, touching books and papers and pens without knowing what to do with them. Caged in his own mind.  
He sits down, gets up, to the window, back to the door, his chest heaves, he feels like his ribs will burst open, he needs to sink his fingers into something to make it _stop_ , to stop and quiet down, but he can’t think of anything, he can’t think at all, he can only hear the sucking gasps of his breathing that can’t fill his lungs, can only feel the itch in his teeth, his fingers, his insides, everything torn by the need to sink into something, to tear and rip and break, and the knowledge that it won’t help, that there is nothing, nothing he can do.

His hands find another book to flip through on his way from wall to window to desk to wall to door and it’s Yeats. He hears Abigail’s voice when she read it to them, and almost rips the pages with this sudden, wild and feral purpose.

The words, swimming on the page, echo through his head and the scent of paper and ink seeps into his nostrils.

_I will arise and go now_

It breaks, energy rushing, flooding, crashing through him, making him gasp like he’s drowning, gasp and choke and cry. It hurts like a punch to the throat and shaking, he sinks down, feet slipping on carpet, spine pressing against the unforgiving wood of his desk, the muscles in his legs jumping with how tense he is. The book’s spine cracking with how he’s pressing it against his knees, his hand fisted painfully in his hair. His whole body shaking with his sobs, inaudible but painful. Aching in his throat, burning behind his eyes.

His glasses slip down the wet bridge of his nose and he takes them off, dropping them somewhere, his body convulsing.

_And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dripping slow,_

The words stick to his palate with how he’s sobbing, his whole body aching, hurting with a deep hopelessness, desperate longing. Peace and freedom, honey-slow and sea-fresh.

He presses his face into the crook of his elbow like his dogs used to do when they needed comfort and his loneliness sends another painful surge through him. Dogs and bees and crickets and lake shores and

_I will arise and go now_

He needs it, he needs it. His throat hurts and his body shakes with how much he longs for it all.

Frantic desperation, pumping blood through him like it’s trying to make him sick with it. He’s out of tears, his sobs scratching his throat raw.

Hopeless exhaustion and longing, cold and wet. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, the fabric rough against his sensitive eyelids. When he looks at the page again, it threatens to spill once more, a heaving sob building in his chest. He forces himself to still and look at the the words, wiping away a teardrop before it seeps further into the paper. 

He tries again.

Reading, he forces himself to accept the words and calm down with the rhythmic rise and fall instead of letting himself be guided into another episode.

_I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree_  
_And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:_  
_Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,_  
_And live alone in the bee-loud glade._

The words echo in Abigail’s voice and Will breathes them in. He can almost see it. Waking up in his old bed every morning. Mist and dogs and weak coffee. Abigail and the stream in the forest. Foam on waves.

His eyes trace the last line again.

_And live alone in the bee-loud glade._

What is Innisfree without Hannibal?

The thought hurts. Not an ache – a burning pain, a knife twisting in his insides. He swallows thickly, but it’s building up again. The dread, the pain, the loneliness. 

He used to call Hannibal when he felt like this, letting his voice soothe him, rush over him like ocean waves.

His phone rings.

Will fumbles with his glasses and his tear wet fingers slip on his phone screen.  
It’s Jack.

“Am I calling at a bad time?”

Will wipes at his eyes again. “No, no. I was just rushing to get the phone.”

“Oh, I see. We found Grayson.”

Already? Will opens and closes his fist, testing the knuckles. “Really? That’s great news, then.”

“Well, not exactly. Someone found him first.”

“Yeah?”

“Bashed his head in with a brick. Skull completely shattered. Teeth broken. Brain with bone sprinkles, that’s all we have to work with. We’re lucky we found a wallet. He looks like he’s been mauled.”

Will sniffs. The scent of warm iron and wet dirt sticks to his nostrils. “I’ll- You want me to take a look?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Not tonight.” These days, Jack tries to shield him and Will appreciates it. He doesn’t need it, it doesn’t make a difference. But it’s appreciated.

Will half-heartedly listens to Jack’s voice (they won’t find the rock where he dropped it into the stream in the woods by his house, so he doesn’t bother to chime in) and runs the pad of his thumb along the corner or Yeats’ Collected Poems. Thinking of a serene, quiet life. _Peace comes dripping slow._

Abigail. Sea-salted foam. Hannibal, cold and pale under his hands. 

When he ends the call, his hand is still shaking a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, as always: Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> This was, as hinted, quite a difficult journey. 
> 
> The emotions Will is going through are loosely based on what I myself experience now and then (the weird, undirected, frantic need to do something that can end in aimless and devastating loneliness), so it was way harder than usual to judge whether the descriptions are any good. 
> 
> That being said - this chapter was written before the whole "Black Ariel" thing got big and public, so that's purely incidental. The sea/drowning/sacrifice/foam thing was what I had in mind when I chose it.  
> The book Hannibal gave her being in french comes from the fact that book Hannibal lives in France after his sister’s dead. I imagine teenage him could buy a book in memory of his sister and the idea that he’d give said book to Abigail sounds reasonable to me as well. Too bad she can’t read it, you smart smart cannibal. 
> 
> "The Lake Isle Innisfree" by William Butler Yeats is one of the poems we talked about in class at some point and I remember crying when I first read it to myself. It's so weirdly relatable, wishing for a peaceful, off the grid life and the utter longing expressed in that "I WILL arise and go no" just hits me so hard. Peace of mind is just a very big thing for Will, poor soul. The vague idea that killing his Darling might not be the right way to go about it is so terrible, too, because that would mean Hannibal isn't really the source of it all, wouldn't it? What if that, too, "doesn't help"?  
> Anyhow, [here's](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43281/the-lake-isle-of-innisfree) the whole poem in case you'd like to read it! (I recommend it!!)
> 
> Maybe you will consider the possibility that Hannibal drove Will into feeling this way (since he got his hands on him so early etc) but that's not the case. Just to note that here. 
> 
> Lastly - Bonus for you if you can figure out what those two could've done to not end up where they're heading right now.
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments/kudos! They mean the world!!
> 
> See you in the FINAL CHAPTER (ahhhh!) or on [tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com)! :)


	5. There's no one left to torture - Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go lads!!! Here we GOOOOO!!! Last chapter last chapter!!!! 
> 
> I'm very excited and I hope you like it! :) 
> 
> With this title we complete the first stanza of Cohen's The Future!

For a few minutes after turning off the alarm, Hannibal simply stays where he is, looking at the ceiling. His mind is overflowing with thoughts, come and gone like melting whipped cream. He and Will both have a tendency to get cold feet, but Hannibal warms up quickly once he’s close to another body. In summer, Will would grumble about it and still wrap his arms around him in the end, short beard rasping against Hannibal’s spine.

Nowadays, Hannibal often wonders whether Will is cold at night. Whether he reaches for Hannibal after a bad dream. Hands lost in white Egyptian cotton syllabub, feeling for Hannibal. Will, white sheets, hands reaching for him.

Hannibal thinks of tonight. Will will reach for him then, too. Claw at him, gasping, blood spilling over white sheets like cherry juice. 

With a sigh, Hannibal closes his eyes. It’s time to get up. There’s a lot to do. A lot to prepare. It’s a good thing Will and Abigail are still at the other house, no matter how quiet it’s been the last few days. Not that they’re particularly loud, but they fill the house with their presence, with life. Subtle, like the scent of biscuits in the oven, and just as sweet.

Hannibal gets up.  
He takes a shower, gets dressed, wanders down into the kitchen, all with a carefully empty brain.

Only as he’s stepping into the room does his mind fill up again, like foam rising on boiling milk. Memories. 

Abigail when she first arrived, barely speaking, sitting on the marble countertop with dangling feet. Eating an apple and watching Hannibal make dinner with her Will-blue eyes.

Will, brushing past him, dropping silverware into the sink, or putting away groceries, or resting his palm on the small of Hannibal’s back while reminding him to get eggs. Or doing a thousand other little things. 

All of it, preserved in this kitchen like a flower in gelatine. Hannibal is glad that he’ll disappear out of this life tonight. Renovating the kitchen would be too much of a hassle.

He sticks to that thought as he fills up the coffee maker, going through a list of possible cities and tasting their pro and contra points on his tongue. The dark chocolate of Vienna, the red wine of Rome, the oysters of Paris. He hasn’t been in Asia for a while. Maybe Hongkong, snake soup and roasted goose. 

It’s all his, the world is presented to him on a silver platter, ready to be dined on. A solitary meal.

Out of habit, he makes pancakes and since it would be a shame to throw them away, he sits down to eat. He’s not in the mood for meat, anyhow.

~*~

Abigail is standing on the porch when Hannibal pulls up to Will’s old house, frowning at her phone. In the sun, her hair looks like coffee, gilded by the warm light.

She looks up when he closes the car door, her frown melting into a bright smile.  
“I thought you’d come later!” Slipping her phone into her back pocket, she skips down the front steps to meet him.

“Then what are you doing outside?” She’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt with candy stripes and isn’t quite warm to the touch when he wraps his arms around her. The scent of wet wood and budding flowers clinging to her almost drowns out the almond-orange blossom scent of her body lotion.  
Hannibal puts a warm palm on her cheek. “And where is your scarf?”

With a laugh and a last squeeze to his ribs, Abigail pulls out of his embrace. “I was just checking the phone service; it hasn’t even been a minute.”  
Her sneakers are wet and Hannibal raises a brow at her.

“I’m sure you’ll survive one night without your phone.”

“It works just fine, actually.” Abigail bumps her shoulder against his as they round the car.

She grabs the cooler with both hands, leaving the basket with fresh vegetables for Hannibal. He’s about to call her back to and take it from her, but Will appears by the open door and carries it inside for her. 

“Did you bring my knife?” His cheek moves under Hannibal’s lips, his short beard scratching him. Like biting on ginger.

“Yes, of course. It’s in the glove department.”

For a second, Will looks at the car, but then carries the cooler inside instead. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Hannibal closes the front door behind himself and makes sure Abigail takes off her wet sneakers before following Will into the kitchen. He watches the flannel flex of Will’s shoulders as he puts the cooler on the counter, thinking how these muscles roll and bunch under his palm.  
“Did you plan on fishing?” 

Will doesn’t turn around, shrugging as he takes off the lid of the cooler. “I’m considering it.”

Hannibal watches how the parcels of meat glisten in Will’s grip as he unpacks them, pieces of livers and lungs and bodies. Red, raw.

He thinks of Will’s insides, of Will gripping his own, glistening red flesh. “The weather might be appropriate. Are you looking forward to it?”  
There aren’t many people Hannibal forcefully prolonged conversations for, but there are even less that made him feel that much like he’s drowning. 

Will just shrugs and it wouldn’t offend Hannibal had it always been that way. There is something to be said about opening one’s heart and having the other person shut the door in one’s face, but Hannibal it too used to it to say it.

Instead, he fills the sink with water to wash the salad. The leaves are cool and ruffled under his palm and break like bird wings.

“At this point–“ Will closes the lid and puts the cooler aside – “I’m looking forward to anything that promises some sort of change.”

Hannibal’s fingertips tangle in the ruffled leaves and he gently forces them underwater.

~*~

Chilton isn’t late and he’s wearing a suit that reminds Hannibal of old caramels, half molten into their plastic wrapper and sticking to his palate. His smile is of the same quality.

“Hannibal, now I know why you never invite anyone over to this place.”  
Will materialises by Hannibal’s side, watching Chilton search for a place to hang his coat.  
“It’s awfully hidden. I thought I was going to starve before I found it. Good evening, Will. Oh, Abigail. It’s always so nice to see you. You look well.”

Will and Hannibal both turn to find her by the door to her room, illuminated from behind. She looks like she’d rather turn and hide, a string of pearls clasped in one fist like a noose.

Will nods at her and she comes to greet Chilton.

“Are you well, then?”

“Yes.”

She took up Will’s distaste for being prodded and they look like mirror images, staring at Chilton by the doorway. Hannibal slips his hand over her shoulder. She changed into a cinnamon-coloured silk shirt that shows off her collar bones and the scar that wraps around her throat like a line of salt.  
“Your help with the plates, please,” he says as he commits the shape of her shoulder blade to his memory. Warm and alive.

“I’m sorry, what am I to do with the coat?”

Hannibal leads Abigail to the kitchen, leaving Will to take the coat and make conversation. After all, they talk for an hour – sometimes even two – every week. They should find a topic to fill five minutes.

In the kitchen, the sweet scent of simmering fruits is wafting through the air. Abigail rushes to stir the compote and turns off the flame, the pearls clicking against the glass of the oven door. She looks over her shoulder, her cheeks dimpling with her smile.

“You made pudding?”

Hannibal steps behind her to take the pearls from her grip and wrap the necklace around her neck. “You can help me put the compote and the cream on later.”

It’s bread pudding, the juicy sweetness of the fruit filling will compliment both the sweet velvet of the wine and the green freshness of the asparagus. Of course a tart could’ve been fitting as well, Hannibal thinks as he watches Abigail lick the compote off the wooden spoon on her way to the sink, red running down her chin. But this is her favourite dessert, and tonight is special.

In the dining room on the top floor that no one ever uses, the scent of warm wood mingles with peonies and candlelight catches in the silverware. The table is set for four and barely visible under the arrangements – The size of the table had slipped Hannibal’s mind while he’d been at the flower shop.

“Oh, so it did help with the sleeping? That’s good to know, I’m glad to hear it.”

They’re sitting opposite from each other at the dining room table and as he leans over Chilton to place the salad in front of him, Hannibal decides that he’ll leave him to bleed out by himself. Between the lettuce, the scattered pieces of blood orange glisten like wet diamonds.

Abigail tenses as well, which probably means that Will asked her to keep quiet about the medication. She’s glancing at Hannibal, and he calms her by smiling at Will as he pours the wine for him.

Will’s eyes slip over Hannibal’s ear, his cheek, his lips. He doesn’t respond and Hannibal can tell that his thoughts are rushing again. A blender, that’s what they are, scrambling Will’s brain.

Hannibal sits and for a moment there’s idle chatter, light and without nutritional value, just like the lettuce. A lot less tasty though.

It’s too late now, but Hannibal briefly regrets inviting Chilton. Caramel sticking to his eardrum and he’d much rather be alone with Will and Abigail for this last meal.

“That’s a beautiful necklace, Abigail.”

“Thank you, I wore it to the wedding.” It’s his tone again, it’s Will’s deadpan defiance. Her eyes, however, are fixed on Chilton as he figures out which wedding she’s talking about.

“Oh, that’s nice.”

She offers a smile. 

“Is it-“ He’s clearly looking for something to say, but Hannibal isn’t helping, isn’t listening. His eyes are on Will.

The way his lower lip shines. The dark flutter of his lashes. The glitter of his teeth when he sinks them into the heart Hannibal cut and fried for him. The line of his throat, the dip of it when he swallows. The way his shirt clings to his shoulders.

It’s one of their mutual favourites, because it looks so very fine on him, showing off his shoulders, his waist, his arms, and he feels human enough in it to breathe easily. He hasn’t worn it in a while, and certainly never with jeans. 

It’ll be a shame to ruin it later. But, Hannibal thinks as his knife cuts through tendons and sinews, it won’t be the only thing shamefully ruined tonight.

Abigail’s voice brings him back from his thoughts. “Recently I read that they found human remains at an altar on Mount Lykaion in Greece.” She nibbles on a piece of salad. “They’re revisiting those human sacrifice myths because of it.”

Chilton, unasked, turns to Will, who has a hard time making sure he doesn’t look at him when he raises his head now and then. “Human sacrifice. What do you think of that? Is it anything other than murder? There are plenty of people who call their murders sacrifices nowadays, after all.”

It’s not a bad question, but Chilton’s voice tastes like pineapples, shallowly sweet and leaving a scratching sensation on his tongue. Hannibal looks at Will, who sips his wine. His teeth are still a little red when he answers, like he sunk them into raw meat.

“It could be a self-sacrifice, especially if the person was respectfully buried after. In general, sacrifices are acts of devotion, of love.” He looks like he wants to say more, and Hannibal knows that at another time, maybe in his office, maybe in their kitchen, their bed, Will would’ve said more. But not here, not now. Caramel and pineapples.

Chilton nods, chewing on his asparagus like someone who wishes they’d brought something to write. “Killing out of love. What do you think about that, Abigail?” 

Hannibal is going to shove a wine glass down his throat until the shards pierce through the skin of his neck from the inside.

“I think it’s less about loving the person you kill and more about loving the person whom you kill for. So I think it does make sense, I guess. What about dessert?”  
The smile is back, the one she does to amuse Will and Hannibal when they’re in public. Before, she used to make gagging noises behind people’s backs, but Hannibal told her a smile would be more polite.  
He catches the way Will’s mouth twitches at the smile and his heart warms like he took a sip of hot tea.

“Yes, of course. Would you help me?” With that, he rises and Abigail picks up her own plate and Will’s to her right.  
This time, they both make sure not to let Will suffer on his own for too long. 

“Rose petal pudding with a hot compote of seasonal fruits and whipped cream with a hint of fresh vanilla.” 

Four plates on which glistening red puddings rest like raw hearts, served on thick vanilla snow. The rose petals are placed lovingly on top of steaming cherry compote, dripping sluggishly.

“This looks fantastic.” Chilton parts the pudding with his fork and compote spills out like guts.

Hannibal smiles politely. “Thank you.”

Will picks up a rose petal and puts it on his tongue, his fingertips sticky-red. He cleans them with two sucking kisses.

On Abigail’s plate, the cream has been piled over the pudding and it’s melting, running down it in pink-white lines to mix with the still white cream piled on the base, as of yet unsoiled. When she picks up her rose petals between her fork and knife and transfers them to Will’s plate, a drop of compote lands on the tablecloth. Red blooming on white linen. 

Will’s eyes are very soft when he looks at her.

Hannibal picks up his knife and fork. With a private little smile, he cuts into his own, cherry sweet heart.

~*~

After, Hannibal stands in the kitchen, his thumb resting against the shining blade of his knife. His eyes are lost in the sink, where soap bubbles look like foamed milk. He feels vaguely empty.

Abigail went to her room to charge her phone and have five minutes of privacy before they reunite with Chilton for one last time. Will is- Hannibal supposes he’s in the bathroom, maybe the bedroom. It serves him well that they all split up, Hannibal thinks as he slips the knife up his sleeve, making sure it falls into his palm easily.

He’ll start with Chilton, then Abigail and finish with Will. This way, Chilton will have enough time to swallow and choke on his own blood and Hannibal will have his peace. A last moment with his family.

However, Chilton isn’t in the living room where Hannibal left him to frown wisely at the framed dog photos on the mantlepiece. The lights are turned off and Chilton’s cologne is a mere unpleasant memory in the air.

It’s Will who’s standing by the fireplace, in the light spilling in from behind Hannibal. One hand rests on his hip, the other on the nape of his neck.

Hannibal’s steps are silent on the wooden floors, the grey carpet, but Will looks up nonetheless, the dim light reflecting on his eyes, making them shine in the shadows on his face. Maybe it’s best this way. Maybe it’ll be neater with Will gone first.

“Dinner was nice,” Will says, his voice like the memory of champagne on Hannibal’s tongue.  
He turns towards him a little and drops his hand to his side. An open stance, an invitation. The leather chair stands between them.  
“Thank you.” It’s almost quiet, but not an afterthought. Will’s gaze slips over Hannibal’s face, catching briefly on his smile.

“You’re welcome.” There’s no need for his palms to be sweaty, and they aren’t. He’s done his before. Many times.

Hannibal puts his left hand on the back of the chair looming between them and looks down to read the cover of the book resting on the cushion. It’s a collection of fairy tales from the nearby library. A flyer for a Chinese delivery service sticks out between the pages.

There’s a faint rustle of clothes and he looks up, not quite at Will, whose eyes rest on the book as he steps closer, as if to pick it up. A step to the side and Hannibal brings he leather chair between them again to reach for the book himself.  
Will’s eyes catch on the flyer and he watches as Hannibal walks to the fireplace with it, where he puts it on the mantlepiece. Hannibal’s eyes slip over the photos without looking at them, breathing in Will’s scent when he comes closer, follows him back to the fireplace. It’s quiet and dark and unsaid words stick to his mouth.

When Hannibal looks a Will, Will opens his mouth, his eyes lost in the forest painting. Hannibal hadn’t thought to turn the lights on when he came in and Will’s throat is golden, honeyed by the warm light filtering in from the kitchen. Where the top buttons of his shirt are undone, his collar bones cut sharp shadows into the gold.

Hannibal waits, but Will’s mouth closes again and he doesn’t turn to look at him. The knife is heavy against his wrist. Hannibal turns and walks to the opposite chair. 

Will follows once more, his steps so silent that Hannibal almost feels like he isn’t moving at all. By the armrest, Will stops, turning a little to look at the bookshelves next to the fireplace. His sternum is almost visible through the collar of his shirt. Hannibal’s throat clicks as he swallows.

He rounds the chair to stand next to him, but Will is moving as well, walking past him, a half turn, Hannibal’s palm finds his arm, catching some of Will’s momentum and turning with him like it’s the next step to this dance they’re doing, two half-shadows in the dark, but now they’re face to face and it. Stops.

They’re closer than Hannibal had anticipated. With his hand still on Will’s elbow, there’s barely any space left between them. Hannibal can taste the cherries and roses on Will’s breath. 

His eyes slip over Will’s red-stained mouth up to his eyes. They’re dark in the dim light, darker now that Hannibal is standing so close, pupils blown, and they’re looking straight at him.

Clear, cool Pythia eyes.  
No myrrh and incense between then, no smoke to blind him. Will’s eyes are on Hannibal and he _sees_ him.

Hannibal’s grip on Will’s arm tightens slightly, his lips part, Will leans in with his hand raising to touch Hannibal’s shoulder and Hannibal sinks the knife into Will’s stomach.

Will’s breath is a soft sigh, sweet on Hannibal’s open mouth. His dark lashes quiver, then it’s a hissing intake of air, like it’s the first time in his life that he’s aware of his necessity to breathe, he’s reaching down, his hand barely brushing Hannibal who holds him tightly by the arm and pulls out the blade, a sliver of light in the dark, sticky and warm now and Hannibal drops it without pulling it to the side and up.

The knife lands on the carpet without making a sound, Will’s other hand finds Hannibal’s arm and Hannibal feels the strength in his grip when Will pulls him in and crashes into his side.

The world tilts, the floor smashes into Hannibal’s skull and Will is on him, a silent shadow, the scent of blood. His gaze is unfocused, light and dark and colours swirling, he blocks Will’s first punch to his face and reaches up. Finds Will’s neck. Will’s breath rattles, he tries to pull back but can’t break Hannibal’s grip on him. His pulse flutters under Hannibal’s palm and he raises his arm, presses it against Hannibal’s elbow, locks his other arm around Hannibal’s forearm, a lever against Hannibal’s elbow, and _pushes_.

It snaps.

The world explodes.

Hannibal is blinded, his head ringing, his whole body alight with pain. He’s gagging, gasping, his arm doesn’t feel human anymore, things mash and swirl, the colour of Will’s eyes and the red-warmth of the inside of his eyelids and everything is bright and dark and hot, and no shape at all-

What wakes him from this daze is the punch that cracks his head against the floor. Blood rushes through his nose and runs down his cheek, he tries to blink but Will punches him again and sparks explode behind his eyes.

His arm is a line of pain and every heartbeat throbs through his whole body, nauseating, he can’t think, his head connects with the floor again. Something in his neck pulls, he’s mute with pain, sick and blind with it, the world a whirlwind of colours and Will’s eyes, wild, alive, cutting into him. He tries to lift his head and Will’s fist connects with his other cheek. The carpet rasps against his cut cheek, the floor vibrates through his skull. The world dims around the edges.

He tries to move, but Will is on top of him like a wild thing, one knee pinning down his uninjured arm. Warmth seeps through his shirt.

“What was that–“

The voice cuts through Hannibal’s brain and he almost gags, his head falling to the side again. Above him, Will stills.

Chilton is standing in the doorway, staring at them. Hannibal’s vision swims, Chilton blurs in and out of focus, contours vibrating painfully. 

“I’m going to– Hannibal, I’ll get– I’ll call someone–“

Chilton stops. His gaze frozen on Will’s stomach, where blood seeps through cotton. “What–“

Will sways.

Chilton’s eyes fall on Hannibal. His bloody hands, his

Eyes.

He stumbles back. “You’re all– I’m–“ The words stick to his throat, he chokes. A pause.  
He stumbles two steps towards them again, expression frozen. Hannibal blinks, his head spinning, echoing like an empty church.

Chilton turns and something catches the light, a shine in the dark. Will’s fishing knife, halfway into his back.

“I– what–“

Abigail pushed him with both hands, he loses footing, crashes. A scream as the impact buries the knife deeper into his body.

Abigail’s hands are shaking, she’s stepping back, almost melting back into the darkness, but Chilton rolls to his side, Will’s knife stuck in his back. He raises onto his knees.

Above Hannibal, Will makes a move to get up. His knee slips from Hannibal’s arm, who gasps in pain.

Will is pale, but his eyes are burning. When his legs give out, Hannibal rolls to the side, onto his broken arm, to reach out and steady him. The world sinks into a swirl of sickening pain, he heaves, but Will is solid in his grip. 

Chilton wobbles, his eyes and mouth wide, but he’s not as unsteady on his feet as Will. Hannibal tries to use his good hand to push himself up, but the movement jostles his arm, cuts through his head, his vision swims. His arm gives out and he collapses again.

His eyes, unfocused and useless, follow Will as he reaches for Chilton. He watches how Will turns into the half-liquid shadow again, an unreal, nightmarish power behind his movements as he topples them over again. He relies on using his body mass, a wild thing fuelled by desperate rage, and Hannibal feels the head trauma and the pain in his arm trying to pull him under. 

Reality vibrates, darkness sucks on his brain, he watches vague impressions move, slipping in and out of concrete forms, and hears the sickening crunch of a nose breaking, a blood-drenched, gurgling yell of pain. But he also sees the way Will’s shirt is clinging to his back with sweat, the blood blooming on his front. 

Chilton is reaching for Will now, first trying to push at his face, then lower, trying to get at his stomach. Will’s shoulders start shaking, his eyes are wide. 

Hannibal tries to force his body to move, knowing that they have to-  
His arm feels like a part wrongly attached to him, a line of nauseating pain, an useless weight, and his feet won’t cooperate, won’t lift with how his brain feels like it’s going to spill out of the cracks of his skull. He can’t move, but he reaches out and catches fabric, skin. Chilton’s wrist is warm in his hand and he pushes it down with all his weight.

Will doubles over. His grip on Chilton’s throat slips and Chilton tries to yank his arm free, tries to buck up and topple Will off his chest-

Abigail kicks his head to the side and his neck breaks with a final, sickening crunch.

Will crumbles.  
His head lands next to Hannibal’s on the carpet and their eyes meet. Will’s face is ashy, his eyes glazed over, his hair is sticking to his forehead and Hannibal _sees_ him. He can smell his sweat, his blood, his roses and his cherries and he _sees_ him.

They breathe together when Abigail sinks to her knees between them, hands shaking so badly her phone clatters to the floor. She picks it up again, the screen lights up.

The dialling tone echoes through Hannibal’s brain, distant yet cutting. Will’s eyelids flutter, his breathing shallow.

Hannibal reaches down and his hand finds Will’s, sticky and warm. He presses and feels the blood against his palm. Will tangles their fingers. Time between them turns honey-slow.

When the phone falls to the floor again a few moments later and Abigail presses her hand on top of theirs, Hannibal’s world is dim and Will’s eyes shiny and unfocused.

“Don’t.” It’s her voice again, directed at them this time. Hannibal listens. “Ten more minutes.” He feels her hand on theirs, her grip tight and strong, and thinks of a sunlit kitchen floor, years and years ago, where their hands were sticky with blood and Will was talking to the pale, gasping child, telling her to wait, please, ten more minutes. 

Abigail’s hand is warm. Alive. “We need to tell them something.” It’s true.

“It was Chilton, then,” Hannibal says, his voice hollow and his jaw stiff.

Will’s eyes slip closed, then don’t open all the way. “Had a bad feeling about him from the start.”

“He must be obsessed with you.”

Will’s eyelids flutter a little. “Sloppy motive.”

Hannibal hums. “Sloppily executed plan.”

Will’s stomach tenses underneath their linked fingers, his laugh barely audible. “Pretty stupid.”

Hannibal feels him, hardly warm and barely alive but here, with him. His lips curl into a smile. “Very stupid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I can't stress this enough. This fic was quite a project for me and I'm so happy about everyone who stuck with it till now - whether you read it all in one go just now or started reading it when I published the first chapter in May. I really hope it was entertaining for you! (And if it did, consider telling me so? :) )
> 
> This chapter actually took a LOT of turns. When I first started thinking about this, the plan was that Hannibal and Will in the end kill both Chilton and Abigail, who sacrifices herself for their happiness. I talked about it with a friend who basically told me that 1) they don't like evil Will (:'( ) 2) killing female characters for convenience's sake is a very cold take. That made me go "Well, shit. That's true!" So I went and redesigned it.  
> Abigail was meant to get her throat cut and Hannibal and Will would fuck off together, making it look like a failed murder-suicide with Abigail in the clear because of her cut throat and her two dads "dead". They were to send her a sweet holiday card in the end.  
> THEN the whole idea came up that maybe, they decide not to kill each other because Abigail shows up during their fight and they basically both go "wait no! she has to go to COLLEGE! We have to solve this!" And then they would've killed Chilton together. That was the latest version, but as I was writing, I realised that it wouldn't work because both Hannibal and Will were simply too fucked to do much in depth planning (there was a whole conversation with Jack planned to mirror chapter 4: waking up/talk with Abigail/catastrophe/talk w Jack).  
> So then this last version kind of. Happened naturally? I ended up seeing the parallels between Abigail's trauma and what happens to Will, her stepping up to save her two saviours.  
> This is also the point where I tell you that yes, Abigail was planning to kill them, too. She's their voice of reason, but she is also terribly afraid of losing her family. Well - it all worked out in the end, didn't it?
> 
> By the way. I LOVE the aesthetic of Hannibal getting 1 (one) hit in and then just getting completely fucked by Will. It was such fun.That's what you get.
> 
> Now a few last notes:  
> \- while writing this, I'd briefly forgotten that Hannibal had already settled on "deer"(/dear) and asparagus for dinner and did some research regarding the history of ancient greek recipes. I thought it would be very fitting for Hannibal to make a sacrifice dinner. That's how I found out about the ["human remains on Mount Lykaion"](https://www.history.com/news/was-skeleton-unearthed-in-greece-a-human-sacrifice-to-zeus) finds from 2016.  
> Well, they're not having greek inspired food, but the sacrifice was still a point I wanted to mention!
> 
> \- the rose petal pudding they have is actually taken from the Fortnum&Mason cookbook, you can also find the recipe [here](https://www.countryandtownhouse.co.uk/food-and-drink/recipes/recipe-tom-parker-bowless-rose-petal-pudding/)  
> I saw it while trying to decide what they could have and man was that visual inspiring. I took some creative liberties, like choosing edible rose petals, making the decorative compote hot and adding some vanilla.
> 
> \- the move Will does on Hannibal was taken from a video of street fighters or something and idk it was not enjoyable to watch two men gleefully discuss snapping muscles and bones.
> 
>  
> 
> Writing action scenes is really difficult for me, I'm very inexperienced when it comes to it, so please let me know what you thought! 
> 
> Now that we're truly at the end, I come to another point: Would you like to see more of them? I would love to explore how their relationship develops from here, even if it's only in an one-shot or headcanons on tumblr. I also have thought about their first time (fresh faced idiots fooling around in Hannibal's office) and I'd love to write about it, if someone cares about it. So please - if you'd like to read it, consider telling me in the comments or on [tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com)  
> There you can also find quotes/music/etc that made me think of this au on a special tag  
> I’m also on Twitter @typinggently, if you’d like to come say hi! Currently it’s very new, but that’s the place I plan to use for updates on my writing! :)   
> It's very motivating to know that others would like to read what you have in mind :)
> 
> Again - thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every reader, all kudos and every comment. It means so much to be able to share my stories :)
> 
> Thank you and have a great day!


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